The Water's Edge

by Daniel Judson

  “A guy named Adamson,” he said. “Did you know him?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “A few months ago he bought Tide Runner’s, that place on the canal.”

  “He was your witness, wasn’t he?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Miller shrugged. “Roffman said there was a witness. It adds up.”

  “But you didn’t know him, right?”

  “Right.”

  Mancini nodded, thought about that, took another quick look around, then said, “Where’d you go tonight? After you left the canal.”

  “I went home.”

  “I tried to call you a few times but there was no answer.”

  “I wasn’t picking up.”

  “So you’ve been home since talking to Roffman at the canal.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I drove by a few times, too. Figured you might not be picking up. Didn’t see your pickup out back, but it’s there now.”

  “I loaned it to a friend of mine. He just brought it back.”

  Mancini nodded again, thoughtfully. “Well, that explains that, then, doesn’t it?”

  “Look, if I was a suspect, Detective, you wouldn’t be here alone, would you? You would have showed up with another detective or a uniformed cop, that’s procedure. Then you would have invited me down to the station and asked me these questions with a video recorder aimed at my face. So why don’t you save us both some time and tell me what you’re really here for? It’s been a long night, it’s late. I’d like to get some sleep.”

  “You do look a little beat.” Mancini studied Miller, then said, “I’m here because I thought maybe you could help me figure something out.”

  “What?”

  “There are some things that don’t make sense. Lots of things.”

  “Like?”

  “Like Adamson was found beside his truck, in the parking lot of his restaurant, not all that long, actually, after he was questioned by Roffman.”

  “Roffman interviewed him himself?”

  “That’s right. It seems that after he talked to Roffman, Adamson called his girlfriend, told her that he was on his way home. When he didn’t show up after a half hour, she got worried and went to look for him, found him dead in the mud. That’s got to suck, huh?”

  “How was Adamson killed?”

  “Strangled.”

  “With what?”

  “Bare hands, it seems. I know that Adamson’s parking lot isn’t paved, and that at least a few vehicles were in and out of it at some point tonight. The rain, though, has washed away most of the tracks.”

  “What about inside the restaurant? Footprints, debris?”

  “Roffman is going to have crime scene techs check it out. Not sure if they’re going to find anything, though. Not sure even if they do find anything that anyone is going to know about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Roffman interviewed Adamson alone.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I was sent back to the station. By Roffman. To double-check the information we got from the DMV. Not exactly the best use of the head detective, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You think Roffman is up to something.”

  “Just like you do.”

  “What makes you think I think that?”

  “You ran to Barton tonight because you missed her all of the sudden? It’s pretty obvious that’s where you went. It’s a pretty safe bet. I’ll tell you, she’s the one I’d run to first if I thought Roffman was up to something. Who would know him better, right? Who might have a dirty secret or two, maybe even be dying to share those secrets with someone, be the cause of Roffman falling flat on his face.”

  Miller said nothing. Mancini took one step toward him.

  “You’re a smart guy, Tommy, we all know this. Roffman has always been scared by how smart you are. More than scared, though, it threatens him. Me, I don’t give a shit who’s smarter than who, all I care about is the fact that three hours after two men are brutally murdered, the only witness we have was himself murdered. That’s fast work, if you ask me. Too fast.”

  “What do you mean, too fast?”

  “It could be that the killers were someplace where they were able to keep an eye on the whole scene, saw Roffman going in to talk to Adamson, waited for him leave and then made their move. Or it could be something else. Something worse.”

  “Like they were tipped off by someone.”

  “Like they were tipped off by someone in the department, yeah.”

  “Why someone in the department?”

  “It’s doubtful the killers could have seen Adamson from the bridge, but even if they had, the distance was too great for him to have been able to identify them as anything other than two figures running away from him. So why would they risk hanging around and watching? And why risk killing him? Killing him right there, across the canal from a crime scene?”

  Miller could think of only one thing, the obvious thing. “To cover their tracks,” he said.

  “And push their luck by leaving all new tracks? The bridge was brilliant—solid wooden ties and gravel means on a rainy night they’d leave no footprints. But the parking lot outside the restaurant is dirt and crushed seashells. That means nothing but footprints. It just seems to me like an unnecessary risk. The only thing that would have made it necessary was if Adamson had somehow actually seen something and told Roffman. But how would the killers know that? And so soon after Roffman questioned him.”

  “Unless it was Roffman who told them.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s what I’d like to find out.”

  Miller waited a moment, thought about all this, then said, “The first part of your theory, that the killers were waiting somewhere nearby, watching the whole scene—” He didn’t complete his thought. He didn’t have to. Mancini was watching him closely.

  “We all know who owns the Water’s Edge,” Mancini said finally.

  Miller muttered the name: “Castello.” Even saying it aloud felt a little like betrayal. Foolish, he knew, but the need to keep his word was steeped in him.

  “This time of year you can easily see the canal from its upper windows,” Mancini said.

  Miller thought then of what Barton had said, about Roffman keeping a promise he, too, really shouldn’t be keeping.

  “You think Roffman is involved with Castello?”

  “I think he’s busy covering up for somebody, yeah,” Mancini said. “And Castello’s from where? South America somewhere? They play by their own kind of rules down there, don’t they? They have their own particular forms of punishment.” After a pause, he added, “They aren’t like us.”

  Us? Who exactly was Mancini talking about? Miller wondered.

  “The dead guys at the canal had worked for Castello,” Miller said. “That’s what you’re thinking, right?”

  “That they worked for Castello and betrayed him somehow, yeah.”

  “But to display their bodies so close to a place he owns, that a lot of people know he owns, that’s kind of bold, don’t you think?”

  “South American types are hotheads, aren’t they? Besides, if you had the chief of police in your pocket, wouldn’t you feel a little bold? Hell, from what I hear, having a chief for a father had made you plenty bold yourself once upon a time.”

  Not bold, just stupid, arrogant, violent. A troubled kid out of control. But I’ve long since made up for that. More than made up for it, more than repaid that debt.

  “So what are you going to do about all this?” Miller said.

  “I’d like to find out what’s going on inside the Water’s Edge.”

  “Get a warrant.”

  “Can’t, you know that. Besides, it’s best that Roffman doesn’t know what I’m thinking.”

  “Wish I could help you, Detective,” Miller said flatly. He knew where this was going, why Mancini was really here.

  “You can, though. You�
��re not a cop. You don’t have a PI license to protect anymore. You could . . . let yourself in, have a look around.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “It doesn’t matter which. I’m not going to do it.”

  “I thought you’d want to help. After what Roffman did to your friend. After the stuff he uncovered about your father, the posthumous beating that poor man took.”

  “What was said wasn’t untrue. Anyway, I don’t fix other people’s problems anymore.”

  “Not even Barton’s?”

  Miller said nothing.

  “What about your own problems, then, Tommy?”

  “My only problem right now is you. Let me make this clear: I’m not breaking into the Water’s Edge. Not for you, not for anyone. There’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.”

  “Even if it means exposing Roffman.”

  “You’re the cop, not me. You catch the criminals.”

  “And if in the meantime Roffman somehow connects you to all this?”

  “Is he trying to?”

  “I don’t have a fucking clue. All I know is he searched the wallets, he was the one who found your business card. What did he say when he talked to you?”

  Miller thought about Roffman’s proposal. Amnesty, free rein, the sharing of information.

  “Not much,” he said.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” Mancini studied Miller, then reached into the pocket of his overcoat, pulled out a business card, placed it on the nearby bar. The bar was made of oak, had a dark marble top and brass trim. Older than Miller, older than Mancini, even—older than all of them.

  “If you change your mind, give me a call.” Mancini took one more look around. “Smart investment,” he said. “You set yourself up nice here. Most people your age would have opted for flash, you know. Sold their parents’ home for two million bucks and blown it all on cars and a lifestyle.” He nodded, then looked at Miller once more. “Smart guy.”

  He turned and walked back toward the kitchen, stepping finally through the swinging doors. Miller waited till he heard the back door close before he left his spot by the front window and went back into the kitchen. Something told him not to go out that way, something in his gut, so he locked the door and returned to the front of the restaurant, let himself out through the main entrance, locking it behind him. He stepped to the corner of Elm Street and Powell Avenue, looked down Powell. The fog wasn’t as thick here as it had been at the ocean’s edge. He could see the taillights of Mancini’s unmarked sedan just as it reached the end of the street a long block away. The sedan turned right, then disappeared from sight. Miller was then, as far as he could tell, alone in his little corner of town.

  He waited a moment, thinking. It took everything he had. Finally he crossed the street to the train station, used his calling card and dialed Spadaro’s number from the pay phone on the platform. Spadaro’s phone didn’t ring, went instead straight into his voice mail. Miller didn’t understand why Spadaro’s phone would be shut off—no ring and being sent straight to voice mail, that’s what that meant, right? Miller hung up without leaving a message. Something, again, something deep in his gut, told him to do that.

  He returned to his apartment, and once inside he found that he didn’t know exactly what to do with himself. His dilemma, though, didn’t last too long. Less than a minute after stepping through the door his landline rang.

  The number on the caller ID was a local number, one that Miller recognized. The pay phone on the corner of Cameron and Main Streets, in the heart of the village. He had called from pretty much every phone in town, at one point or another, remembered their numbers, or enough of their numbers to be recognize them and recall their location when he saw them. He answered his phone right away.

  “It’s me,” Barton said. “I’m calling from a pay phone.”

  “Yeah, I know. What’s going on?”

  “I called Ricky, to let him know you’d be calling. He wanted me to give you a message.”

  “What?”

  “Michaels had a girlfriend.”

  “How’d he find out?”

  “He didn’t want to say. He was leaving, wanted me to give you an address.”

  “Where was he going?”

  “He didn’t want to say that, either. He thinks you should go to this address and have a look around. It’ll be a few hours at least before the cops get this information, he said, so you have a window. He’s afraid that evidence might disappear once the cops go through the place, thinks you should get there before that happens.”

  “I don’t know, Kay—”

  “You have to promise me something, Tommy.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not going to give you the address unless you promise to let me come with you.”

  “I’m not even sure I’m going anywhere—”

  “Just promise.”

  “Listen, I’m a little uncomfortable with a cop telling me to break into the home of the girlfriend of a murder victim. First Roffman wants me on the case, offers me amnesty, then Mancini tries to get me to do something only an idiot would do, and now Spadaro.”

  “What do you mean, Mancini wants you to do something only an idiot would do?”

  “He just gave a big pitch. Thinks Roffman is up to something, wants to find out what. Maybe he’s on the level, or maybe he just wants to be the next chief. I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Just now, after I saw you. He met me downstairs.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I almost don’t want to tell you now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You won’t be able to sit still once you find out who the girlfriend is, Tommy. And until we know what’s going on, you probably should sit still. It looks to me like all the big boys want the playground tonight.”

  “Back up, Kay. What do you mean, once I find out who the girlfriend is?”

  “If Roffman knew about this, I’m sure he would have told you. Same with Mancini. If they were trying to get you to act, this would certainly do it. You’re going to find out sooner or later, though, so I guess I should tell you now. Better me than any of those clowns. But you have to promise to let me come with you.”

  “Kay, what’s going on?”

  “Just promise me, Tommy.”

  “Yeah, all right, I promise, whatever. What the hell is going on?”

  The line went quiet for a moment. Miller looked toward his front windows. His unlit apartment was chilly. He waited for what felt to him like a long time.

  “Jesus, Kay, what?”

  “Michaels’s girlfriend was Abby.”

  Miller’s next word was little more than a desperate whisper. “What?” “Your Abby, Tommy. According to Spadaro she was going out with the Michaels guy. She was his girlfriend. And Spadaro thinks she might be missing.”

  Miller closed his eyes, then opened them again. Nothing in his living room had changed, and yet suddenly everything looked so different, so foreign.

  “What’s the address, Kay?”

  “It’s not as easy as all that, Tommy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll explain when I see you. I’ll be at your place in two minutes. Okay?”

  Miller nodded, though of course she couldn’t see him.

  “Tommy?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be here,” he said.

  “I’m leaving now.”

  She hung up. Miller returned the receiver to the cradle. After a moment he looked at his watch. It was midnight, and the blue flame in his chest was gone now.

  Part Two

  Midnight

  Five

  IN DARKNESS, BECHET SCRAMBLED FOR HIS RINGING CELL phone. He found it and quickly looked at the number on the display, saw that it was Falcetti calling. Of course it was. Who else could it have been? Bechet answered right away, for the sake of his still-sleeping lover stretched out bet
ween her soft satin sheets. He had been unable to sleep at all, had gotten up to use the bathroom and was on his way back to bed when his phone had started to ring. He stood now in the middle of the small bedroom, naked, speaking as softly as he could.

  “Yeah, Bobby,” he said.

  “I need your help.” A cell phone to cell phone connection was usually bad, but this was terrible. It sounded to Bechet as if Falcetti wasn’t speaking directly into the phone at all.

  “What’d going on?” Bechet said. “Where are you?”

  “I got a flat.”

  “How?”

  “The tire stem must have broken or something when I crashed, started a slow leak. Everything was fine, and then the steering started to feel funny. Next thing I knew, I was flat.” He was speaking quickly, sounded out of breath even.

  Bechet thought to ask why but wanted to keep Falcetti focused. “What about the spare tire?”

  “It’s fine, but I can’t find the lug key.”

  Most of the cabs Bechet and Eddie owned were used, purchased, back when Bechet had bought into the business, from a cab company in the city. Each wheel on each of these cabs had a locking lug that prevented the wheels from being stolen. A lug key, which fit like an extender into the lug wrench and matched the pattern of slots on the lug, was needed to remove each tire. Each cab had its own particular key, of which there were only two copies. One was kept in the respective cab, the other in a lockbox in Bechet’s Jeep.

  “It should be in the glove compartment,” Bechet said.

  “I know, man. I looked. It’s not there.”

  Bechet didn’t bother to suggest that he call Scarcella, have the cab towed to Scarcella’s salvage yard and then deal with it in the morning. No point in going over all that again.

  “Where are you?” Bechet said again.

  “Wainscott. Helenbach.”

  He was farther away than Bechet had hoped he’d be. A good half hour, each way. Not a quick trip like the first had been, or at least had promised to be.

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  Bechet started to say, “You’re a real pain in my ass, Bobby,” but even before he got halfway through, the line went dead.